


Its Own Destruction

by Euterpein



Series: Ficlets/Event Fills [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Food Fight, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24759676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: All eyes were on them; the patrons at the surrounding tables and the waitstaff scattered around the floor had turned when the shout had rung out, freezing at the scene of absolute horror before them.A single bit of butternut squash slid, languidly, down Aziraphale’s cheek. Crowley watched its descent with a feeling of mounting horror.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ficlets/Event Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875394
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39
Collections: Crowley's Demonic Side, SOSH - Guess the Author #01 "You started it"





	Its Own Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round one of the "Guess That Author" game in the Soft Omens Snuggle House server! The prompt was "You started it."

The silence was so absolute, you could have heard a pin drop to the tiled marble. All eyes were on them; the patrons at the surrounding tables and the waitstaff scattered around the floor had turned when the shout had rung out, freezing at the scene of absolute horror before them.

A single bit of butternut squash slid, languidly, down Aziraphale’s cheek. Crowley watched its descent with a feeling of mounting horror. 

Aziraphale blinked. In the hushed stillness he brought up a pristine white napkin to dab at the offending vegetable, then stared at the orange smudge as though it held all the secrets to the universe. 

Crowley’s mouth moved without any permission whatsoever from his brain. “Listen, angel, really you started this.”

All around them, their impromptu audience took in a sharp breath.

“I started it?” Aziraphale asked mildly. He folded his napkin with short, careful movements, and laid it gently on the table.

“Y-yeah,” Crowley continued, despite all the alarm bells his brain could muster clanging around his head in a desperate bid to get him to just _think_ before speaking, for _once, Crowley_ , “I mean, you did say you wanted to try the soup.” He realized he was still holding the spoon he had used to flick said soup over at the angel in front of him, frozen in place along with the rest of his body, and sheepishly laid it back on the table.

Aziraphale’s stare was cool. “I see. So, let me get this straight. I asked you, quite politely, if I could try the soup you had ordered. And you decided the best method for providing me my request was to _launch_ it at me.”

“Listen,” Crowley said desperately, “it’s a reflex, right? Demonic impulse. I wasn’t paying attention and it just sort of-- _happened_.”

The silence stretched again as Aziraphale’s implacable gaze continued to bore into him.

After some indeterminate amount of time in which the whole room seemed to hold its breath, Aziraphale seemed to come to some sort of decision. He turned back to his plate, his mantle of willful British _carrying on_ evident in every line of his body. “Well, alright. I suppose I can forgive you this once.” He picked up his knife and fork and began cutting into his roast duck.

The sigh of relief was audible. Life returned to the room as people turned back to their dining companions, chuckling nervously, the waitstaff resuming their courses on slightly unsteady feet. Crowley himself released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He drank up the last dregs of the coffee from his cup before picking up his spoon again, moving to bring some of the still-warm soup to his lips.

He sputtered and jerked as a wad of wilted greens splattered against his cheek. He looked up, incredulous, to find Aziraphale still utterly focused on his roast duck, only the small curve of a smile on his lips giving him away.

Crowley grinned. Oh, _now_ it was on.


End file.
